


The Vandals

by GinAndShatteredDreams



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Bullying, Fluff, M/M, Vandalism, fiddauthor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 11:19:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7932664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GinAndShatteredDreams/pseuds/GinAndShatteredDreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Weirdmageddon, Dipper and Mabel finally told Ford where he could find his old friend.  When he visited the junkyard to spend some time with him, he found himself facing a pair of vandals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Vandals

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings - The vandals make an attempt at a homophobic joke. 
> 
> Thanks to usually-confused.tumblr.com for beta reading this for me!

From the moment he returned to Dimension 46’/, Stanford wanted to know what had become of his old friend, Fiddleford.  For decades he’d hoped for the opportunity to offer him an apology and finally received it in the form of a brief encounter under the most dire of circumstances.  In a panic for time and very few words, Fiddleford had forgiven him, hugging him as the world fell apart around them.    
  
Up until Ford’s worst nightmares became reality, he had asked Dipper and Mabel multiple times what had become of his former partner in ethically ambiguous endeavors and, in return, received nothing other than frustration in the form of mumbles or abrupt shifts in the conversation.  As he stood before the junkyard’s wooden gates, hanging crookedly on their hinges, he understood why they had tip-toed around the topic.  He swallowed the lump in his throat and placed one mud-toed boot in front of the other, swerving around disassembled motor parts, pieces of obsolete electronics, and bags containing anything from rotten food scraps to…  He didn’t want to think about it.    
  
He wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his coat, wishing for September breezes and autumn leaves as the August heat stifled his breath with the junkyard’s stagnant stench.  His hand remained raised above his glasses, shielding his eyes from the sun as he approached the ramshackle residence of Fiddleford H. McGucket.  His chest tightened with every step and momentarily got the better of him.  He ducked behind a tilted pile of car doors, leaning against one while resting a clammy hand over his stomach.  He swore he could feel electric arcs buzzing between every nerve somewhere beneath his sweater and his skin.  “Breathe,” he thought.  
  
With his worries in check, he leaned around the pile, taking in the sight of his old friend’s current home.  Sheets of corrugated metal and the hood of on old car served as a the cobbled together roof of the wooden shack.  There were no windows, though the walls bore holes large enough to serve the same purpose.  An animal hide he could not identify hung in an opening meant as a door.  Guilt stirred in Ford’s stomach, rising to his throat as he remembered the starry night when Fiddleford had told him how he fantasized about a home with a screen door that wasn’t broken.  Now he didn’t even have a broken one.  Yet, beyond the orange, fluffy-tailed hide, a yellow light flickered, warm and inviting.    
  
A metallic clatter drew his attention to the wall where the words “MCSUCKIT” were scrawled across the weathered boards in fluorescent pink spray paint.  He clenched his eyes closed at the sight, his chest tightening again, this time from grief rather than nerves.  How had he lived like this for so many years?  How long had the townspeople mocked him?  How-?  
  
The same clatter, the unmistakable shaking of a can of spray paint, cut off his thoughts.  He peeked through the window of a bent and battered car door, watching as two teens crept up to his old friend’s home.  He squinted, trying to determine if he knew them but they didn’t look like anyone he’d seen around the Mystery Shack, not even any of Wendy’s friends.  One was stringy with blond buzzed hair and pants that appeared at least five sizes too big for him.  The other was somewhat muscular with a shaved head and no shirt.    
  
Ford’s fingernails dug into his palms at the first “psst” of spray paint.  With grinding teeth he fought the urge to draw his blaster and roll out from behind the door heap.  Instead, he took one more deep breath and stepped out into the open calmly.    
  
“What do you think you’re doing?” He spoke in a stern but even tone, his chest puffed out.  He held his arms stiffly by his sides, not so much to look intimidating but to stop himself from reaching for a weapon.   _They may be jerks but they’re still minors.  If memory serves me, I believe it’s looked down upon to point a blaster at them._  
  
“Ha, what’s your deal, old man,” said the blond.  
  
“Vandalizing property is, oh what the devil do kids say these days?” He pondered, tapping his chin, “not radical?”  
  
“Ha!  'You some sort of nerdy walking time capsule or something?” The bare chested teen asked.    
  
“…  Yes I suppose I am,” he answered, adjusting his glasses, “But that’s beside the point.  How would you like it if I came to your house and spray pained ‘A heartless vandal lives here’ all over it?  Do you even know who lives here?” his level tone escalated toward a gritty growl with each word, “Do you know he’s the genius who designed the robot that helped save this entire town when it was under attack?  Do you understand that he’s the hero who made rescue efforts for you and your loved ones possible?”    
  
“Heh, what are you gay for him or something?”  The blond snickered.  
  
Ford paused for a moment, considering all possible retorts, some of which were in interdimensional languages.  With a smile, he chose the most effective one he could think of and offered it in a matter-of-fact cadence, “Yes.  Yes I am.”  
  
He couldn’t help laughing to himself as their jaws hung open and they could not muster a reply.    
  
“What’s wrong?  You know, you say I’m a time capsule but even I know jokes like that should have no place in this world anymore.  And here I thought teenagers were supposed to be- oh what do you call it?  Hip?  Cool?  Perhaps others are and you two are the exception.  Anyway who cares what my or anyone's preferences are?  Does it hurt you?  Does it affect your life?  No!  So get your narrow-minded, judgmental attitudes out of here and go learn how to have some empathy for the people around you!”  
  
“Whatever old man.”  The shirtless teen said with a dismissive wave of his hand.  
  
“Yeah, whatever,”  The blond added, “What are you gonna do, call the cops on us, you six-fingered freak…?”    
  
“Hey!  What’s goin’ on out there?” Fiddleford’s voice drew closer with each yelled word.  He burst through the pelt hanging in his door and, with a raised fist, he hollered, “You hooligans git offa’ ma’ property or I’ll build me a revenge-tron that'll haunt yer nightmares!”  
  
The teens turned away with a laugh and strolled off, acting as unimpressed as they could manage.    
  
Fiddleford turned to Ford, cupping one hand beside his mouth to whisper to him, “It’s uh… not actually ma’ property…  I jus’ say that ta’ git ‘em ta go away.”  He clapped his hand on Ford’s shoulder and said merrily and rather loudly, “Come on in, darlin',” he emphasized the last word, as if he wanted the vandals to hear how unaffected he was by their shenanigans.    
  
“Fiddleford?” Ford stuttered, a burning tingle rising in his cheeks, “How much of that did you just overhear?”  
  
“Weeellll...  I kinda-sorta-mighta been listenin’ in right from the beginnin' but ya were sayin’ some mighty nice things ‘bout me an’ my tongue was a little too hogtied at the moment fer me ta’ come out an’ say anythin'.  I was purdy impressed at how ya' got them hooligans ta' shut up," he rambled, tipping his hat up to give Ford an appreciative nod.  With a snaggle toothed smile, he added, "But...  You wanna know something?  I didn’t build the Shacktron for them or really for anyone else in this town.”  
  
“Oh?  Then who?”  Ford asked, ducking under the pelt as Fiddleford pulled it aside, ushering him into his home.  
  
“Yup.  I built it for you.”  


End file.
